


Canopy of Stars

by Night-Lie (Night_Lie)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autistic Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Fluff, Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), M/M, author might have to admit having a thing for hands, story at 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Night_Lie/pseuds/Night-Lie
Summary: An angel creates some stars.After, he doesn’t Fall or vaguely saunter downwards.He takes one step, and he’s home.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Canopy of Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally the epilogue to a longer fic that has sat in limbo for 7 months now. I don't think I'll ever actually finish that one. Luckily this works as a stand-alone. If I ever finish the fic, I'll just make it a series.
> 
> In between chapters, they had a Jewish wedding, which they reference, but it doesn't really play a part here.
> 
> Crowley has red hair in this and Aziraphale has "pale" hair, but nothing else contradicts book canon. Unless Sue Perkins doesn't exist in Book Omens.

Long, slender fingers dip into a swirling mass of cold, gooey darkness, littered with glittering pinpricks of light of varying brightnesses. 

The fingers lift out of the pot, a few drops running down and dripping back into whence they came, creating ripples in the puddle of concentrated imagination.

Above, a canopy of stars hangs low.

The hand raises and presses against an empty patch in the sky and then slowly, reverently, drags through dark not yet filled with galaxies, leaving behind new nebulae and planets and asteroids, all glimmering happily as if saying _“We’re here now. You made us. Can you see us?”_

He can. He’s the only one that can.

The dark liquid runs down his palm and then his wrist. It’s cold but not unpleasant. He watches it glide and smiles slowly, a private smile for a few rebellious droplets that aren’t actually rebels at all, just obeying the rules of physics.

He helped create physics, too.

With his clean hand, he touches his wrist and gathers up the mass that holds endless possibilities. Then he scrapes his fingers against the edge of the pot, returning the excess and saving it for a later time.

He sits down and looks up. Then he lays down on his back, underneath the heavens of his own creation. Watches them exist, appreciates each and every one of them as they blink at him.

This is his own private nook of the Universe. He feels a peace here, among freshly painted constellations not yet named. They understand him. They are a part of him, in the same way a favourite song is a part of one’s soul.

He closes his eyes. A warm wind breezes past, lifting some of his long hair over his face, disturbing nothing else. He brushes it aside with starsap covered fingers. The dark syrup creates a surface on his skin, on which freckles made of lights twinkle.

It was an hour ago he created a binary star system. It was a billion years ago he felt champagne bubbles on his tongue. It was a lifetime ago he last spoke to someone that wasn’t a ball made of gas. Time didn’t exist here, in his private little Eden.

Two minutes or 105 years or 8000 years later a pair of footsteps approach, and he does not move. He doesn’t need to try to hide this. The one who loves him the most understands. Knows his soul, all his thoughts and feelings. Knows his most private feelings and wants, usually before he does.

This may be his Eden now, but he is not the one who made it so.

The wooden patio echoes as a pair of oxfords walk from inside the cottage to the edge of the veranda and stop there.

“Dear?” The one who knows all his needs, secrets, weaknesses and every dark pit of his mind and lights them up calls.

“Yeah, Angel?” He replies, not yet making a move to get up.

“I made some cocoa. And that cooking show is about to start, the one with Sue Perkins. You promised you’d watch it with me.”

He did promise that. He sits up and nonchalantly wipes clean any starmatter[1] onto the grass before standing.

He steps down the one stair from the grassy expanse onto the patio and holds out his hand.

He snaps his long fingers and inside their safe haven, the gramophone beings playing. The music drifts outside through the open patio door and fills the backyard.

“Dance with me, Angel?” The hand is offered, palm up.

“I only really know the Gavotte, you know this, silly serpent.” A hand joins his, covering his own, fingers interlocking, despite any protests. They both step closer to one another.

“We danced the waltz at our wedding," he points out.[2]

“It was more like us swaying together, our guests did most of the actual dancing around us,” his heart and soul responds, smiling indulgently up at him, his pale hair backlit from the lights inside the house. It looks like a lovely halo.

“So let’s sway,” he says, low and warm and loving. His lover rests his head on his shoulder, not caring red hair tickles his nose.

They sway under the night sky until the song ends before heading inside.

They make it in time to watch the Great British Bake Off, cuddling on the couch, as close to becoming a single being to creatures can.

Outside, a swarm of fireflies comes to life and lights the darkness outside like a living constellation.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley had been thrilled when slime used for stimming became popular. It reminded him of the dark ocean of mass he had been allowed to play with. The supermarket variety didn’t come with any real stars, but things being one way never stopped him from imagining them as something else. The matter he is playing with, then, is something like paint, and his canvas something like a hammock, dangling high enough for him to have to reach up while laying down. If a few drops land on his face, well, he didn't mind a few freckles.[return to text]  
>    
> 2They had danced to a modern waltz composed by David G. Arnold. The traditional dances were also present, but during a slow dance they had the opportunity to hold each other and whisper.[return to text]
> 
> Footnotes break my brain. Thank you for your time!


End file.
